FOREST AND STREAM 
157 
The Record Salmon of Gulquac 
By R. A. Worstall. 
J UL\ the second, 1914, dawned for me at least 
just like any ordinary day. As I dressed for 
breakfast I had no premonition that this was 
to be a red letter day in my life. In fact, when 
we were all ready to start out for the day’s fish- 
,n &> and I found I had drawn what we regarded 
as the poorest pool on the stretch, I can take 
oath I had no idea of catching anything. 
We were at the Ogilvy camp—Gulquac 
Lodge—on the Tobique River, New Brunswick, 
and my guide and friend, Jack McKellar, having 
launched the canoe, stood patiently awaiting my 
coming. My wife, also without any hunch, de¬ 
cided not to go out with us, to her subsequent 
sorrow. So I took myself with rod, camera, 
and accessories, to the canoe, and we shoved off. 
We had a long way to go up stream, and Jack 
spat out ruminative remarks at times punctuated 
by the clank of the iron shod pole on the rocky 
bottom. “I'd laugh”—clank, clank—“if we’d put 
one over”—clank—“on those other fellows,”— 
clank—clank—“often happens”—clank—“that the 
follow that gets the bum water,”—clank—clank 
—“gets tbe best fish.” 
No answer. I always was somewhat of a pes¬ 
simist, anyway, and I had no hopes of any such 
pleasant ending to the morning. Anyway my 
attention was taken just then by the sight of 
Blue Mountain, bluer than usual, reflected in the 
calm water, and I wanted the picture. So I had 
Jack pole in to shore. He, no ways loath to have 
a few minutes rest, leaned on the pole and 
watched my preparations. Those of you who 
have taken natural color photographs, be they 
Lumiere or Paget, and I took both this time, will 
understand that Jack had plenty of time to rest. 
First the camera must be made comfortable on 
the tripod, then its pulse, temperature, and pre¬ 
vious condition of servitude noted. The lens, cau¬ 
tiously approached, must be quickly and firmly 
muzzled with the ray filter. The sun was then 
courteously but firmly interviewed as to how 
strong he felt that morning. A few revolutions 
of a dial, and I got the answer. Click! went the 
shutter, then click! again and the plate was 
exposed. More of the same business, and the 
second was done. I might say in passing that 
both turned out well. 
We reached our destination finally—the upper 
dead pool—paddled up through the edge, and 
anchored beyond. After waiting a few min¬ 
utes. we dropped down toward the head of the 
pool, anchored again, sat quietly ten minutes, 
then I began casting. The sun was bright and 
full on the pool, and not a riffle stirred the sur¬ 
face. I was using a number six Brown Fairy, 
and even that looked big under the conditions. 
When we had made several drops, and were 
about half way down the pool, as I reached the 
limit of my cast, Jack, as well aware of my 
limitations as I, had turned around and was 
lifting the anchor, preparatory to another drop. 
Before reeling in, I made a final cast over to 
the left where a darker pocket showed in the 
shallow water, and as the fly swept over this 
shadow there came a surge like a submarine. 
I struck as hard as I could, for I had out a 
long line, and as the hook went home, with the 
shock a great salmon leaped high in the air, 
splashed back, and shot out a hundred and 
Jack and the 27%-lb. Salmon. 
fifty yards with that speed that seems in¬ 
credible until you have experienced it. Jack 
appraised by the splash and the screech of the 
reel, dumped the anchor in the bottom, grabbed 
the pole, and as we shot after the fish he ex¬ 
ploded eagerly “Is he a good one?” “Some fish, 
Jack,” I said. “Well, it’s twenty to eleven now,” 
said Jack. “Give it to him and we’ll land him in 
twenty minutes.” I was using a light Leonard 
Grilse rod, and the leader had originally been 
tested and broke at ten pounds, but as I had been 
using it two days I questioned just how much 
strain it would stand. However, I did give it to 
him hard as he rushed, then sulked, then jigged. 
In about fifteen minutes Jack, who had not yet 
seen the fish, poled in to shore preparing to gaff 
the salmon, while I grinned to myself at his 
optimism. However, I dutifully worked him in 
as close to Jack as I could, and they glimpsed 
each other at the same moment. “My!” gasped 
Jack, ‘You’ve got a river hog! ” while the 
salmon tore off nearly two hundred yards in a 
straight rush across the river, then leaped spas¬ 
modically high in the air. 
There is no use in boring you with details of 
that fight. Lip and down and across the stream, 
up in the air in frantic leaps, down deep in sulk¬ 
ing spells that Jack broke by thrashing the water 
with the pole. Gradually the fight drifted down 
stream. Jack was keeping track of the time; now 
half an hour, now an hour, now an hour and a 
half, now two hours. Four times we had landed 
and tried to beach him, but the strain on the 
tackle was too much, and each time he had rush¬ 
ed again. We had come a mile and over down 
stream, and were approaching bad water. Jack 
reached over and tucked into his pockets the 
ray filters, etc., lying loose in the bottom of the 
canoe. “What you doing?” I asked. “Going to 
gaff him from the canoe,” said Jack, “do you 
mind a spill ? “Not if you'll recover the camera,” 
1 replied. 
The salmon was now about all in, making only 
short, feeble circles, about the canoe. As we 
danced into the first waves of a gentle rapids. 
Jack slowly and carefully reached over him, and 
drove the gaff home, drawing the struggling fish 
up against the side of the canoe. For a few 
moments it was touch and go whether the salmon 
would come to us, or we go to him. But a 
final heave brought him aboard, and a sharp blow 
settled his struggles. I was too busy then to 
think of the camera, but I’d give a lot to-day 
for a picture of Jack as he stood braced in the 
stern of the canoe, the salmon thrashing the 
water over us, or of the expression on his face 
as we shook hands over the result. It was now 
1:13 p. m. Just two hours and thirty-three 
minutes of constant fighting. 
Jack let out a mighty yell. “Shut un,” I said, 
let’s have some fun.” We had drifted so close 
to the camps I was afraid they would hear us 
but we shoved the salmon up into the bow, 
covered it over with my Coat, and picking up the 
paddles we raced down stream. 
I knew our absence from lunch would lead 
them to susoect we had tied into a fish. Sure 
enough, as we swept around the island toward 
the dock, thev all came running ont. and hailed 
us. Jack and I with glum faces looked down 
our nos^s and made no reply. We docked in 
siknce, and I picked no my rod and camera, and 
climbed tbe bank. Here, ringed by a circle of 
inouirine- faces, I mutely held un the flv which 
Jack had broken off at the barb in extracting it. 
“Look at that.” I finally said, “Over two hours 
on the rod. and the hook broke!” Business of 
commiseration for some minutes but Mrs. Mac, 
who had been eying me intently, broke out. 
“You’re a liar. You’ve got a fish.” And at that 
Jack lifted the salmon from the canoe, while 
the crowd descended on me with whoops and 
thumps of unselfish joy. 
The salmon measured 41% inches in length, 
